Der Herbsttag by Johann Heinrich Voss

Elevate form over function to get at less easily articulable truths.

Re: Der Herbsttag by Johann Heinrich Voss

Postby Meno_ » Tue Nov 17, 2020 7:47 am

The Astronomer
by Rabindranath Tagore
I only said, "When in the evening the round full moon gets
entangled among the beaches of that Dadam.
tree, couldn't somebody
catch it?"
But dada laughed at me and said, "Baby, you are the silliest
child I have ever known.
The moon is ever so far from us, how could
anybody catch it?"
I said, "Dada, how foolish you are! When mother looks out of
her window and smiles down at us playing, would you call her far
away?"
Still dada said, "You are a stupid child! But, baby where
could you find a net big enough to catch the moon with?"
I said, "Surely you could catch it with your hands.
"
But dada laughed and said, "You are the silliest child I have
known.
If it came nearer, you would see how big the moon is.
"
I said, "Dada, what nonsense they teach at your school! When
mother bends her face down to kiss us, does her face look very
big?"
But still dada says, "You are a stupid child.



And :


"The butterfly counts not months but moments, and has time enough.
Let your life lightly dance on the edges of Time like dew on the tip of a leaf."
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Re: Der Herbsttag by Johann Heinrich Voss

Postby Meno_ » Tue Nov 17, 2020 4:55 pm

Tzara, resurfacing into some phletorum::

No non sense gives additional space, before a fall.

The discontinuance of winter, is long for discontent ; my son of yorkie!

But either way ok
I guess.


Meno
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Re: Der Herbsttag by Johann Heinrich Voss

Postby Meno_ » Tue Nov 17, 2020 5:21 pm

Tristan Tzara


The masochistic xxxxxx(expletive) of requited love(4. three oranges, is soooooooooo close to love, then,

Like this symbol's irreplaceable symbol, the metaphor risen from kitsch,

As Dali, well not nearly and his Gala


* this whole train of expression started with S.Dali's ' The Metamorphosis of Narcissus, led into Dali's redemption by Gaia.
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Re: Der Herbsttag by Johann Heinrich Voss

Postby Meno_ » Sun Nov 22, 2020 7:42 am

I'll Be a Tree

I'll be a tree, if you are its flower,
Or a flower, if you are the dew-
I'll be the dew, if you are the sunbeam,
Only to be united with you.

My lovely girl, if you are the Heaven,
I shall be a star above on high;
My darling, if you are hell-fire,
To unite us, damned I shall die.



Sandor Petofi
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Re: Der Herbsttag by Johann Heinrich Voss

Postby Meno_ » Mon Nov 23, 2020 7:35 am

Kathy Acker



If you ask me what I want, Ill tell you. I want everything.”



“Dreams are manifestations of identities.”
King of the Pirates

“Death is another bar which lies several steps below the normal world. Im at its threshold, but not yet in it. Its doorway is doorless.”
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Re: Der Herbsttag by Johann Heinrich Voss

Postby Meno_ » Wed Dec 16, 2020 5:28 am

Harry Crosby

I exchange eyes with the Mad Queen

the mirror crashes against my face
and bursts into a thousand suns
all over the city flags crackle and bang
fog horns scream in the harbor
the wind hurricanes through the window
and I begin to dance the dance of the
Kurd Shepherds

I stamp upon the floor
I whirl like dervishes

colors revolve dressing and undressing
I lash them with my fury
stark white with iron black
harsh red with blue
marble green with bright orange
and only gold remains naked

columns of steel rise and plunge
emerge and disappear
pistoning in the river of my soul
thrusting upwards
thrusting downwards
thrusting inwards
thrusting outwards
penetrating

I roar with pain

black-footed ferrets disappear into holes

the sun tattooed on my back
begins to spin
faster and faster
whirring whirling
throwing out a glory of sparks
sparks shoot off into space
sparks into shooting stars
shooting stars collide with comets

Explosions
Naked Colors Explode
Into
Red Disaster

I crash out through the
window naked, widespread
upon a
Heliosaurus
I uproot an obelisk and plunge
it into the ink-pot of the
Black Sea
I write the word
SUN

by Harry Crosby







Firebrand

Sun-Rhapsody
The Sun! the Sun!
a fish in the aquarium of sky
or golden net to snare the butterfly
of soul

Quatrains To The Sun
A sunfort flourished in my sunless heart
Beyond the Sun. Here in a tower apart
The sunbirds of my lady's eyes were caged
Alas, poor targets for the sun-god's dart.
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Re: Der Herbsttag by Johann Heinrich Voss

Postby Meno_ » Wed Dec 23, 2020 4:01 am

To my friend : EC


A dream, a dream is our being
of mortal clay,
like shadows on the road we're fleeing
and fade away.

We measure progress by the ride of
an hours' strife,
and live - and know not - right inside of
eternal life...

poem by Johann Gottfried von Herder,
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Re: Der Herbsttag by Johann Heinrich Voss

Postby Meno_ » Sun Dec 27, 2020 4:19 pm

I am filthy. I am riddled with lice. Hogs, when they look at me, vomit. My skin is encrusted with the scabs and scales of leprosy, and covered with yellow pus.[…] A family of toads has taken up residence in my left armpit and, when one of them moves, it tickles. Mind one of them does not escape and come and scratch the inside of your ear with its mouth; for it would then be able to enter your brain.”











Poems I

The poetic moans of this century are only sophisms.
The first principles must be out of discussion.
I accept Euripides and Sophocles; but I do not accept Aeschylus.
Do not show lack of the most basic proprieties
and bad taste towards the creator.
Repel unbelief: you will please me.
There are only two kinds of poetry; there is only one.

There is a little tacit convention between the author and the reader, by
which the first calls himself sick, and accepts the second as
nurse. It is the poet who consoles humanity! The roles are
switched arbitrarily.

I will not leave any Memoirs.
Poetry is not the storm, any more than the cyclone. It is a
majestic and fertile river.
It is only by admitting the night physically that we have managed to
do it morally. O Young nights! you gave me a lot of
migraines!
We only dream when we sleep. It is words like the dream one,
nothingness of life, terrestrial passage, the preposition perhaps, the
disordered tripod, which have infiltrated into your souls this damp poetry
of languors, like rottenness. Going from words to ideas,
there is only one step.
Disturbances, anxieties, depravities, death, exceptions
tions in the physical or moral order, the spirit of negation, stupefactions
, hallucinations served by the will, torments,
destruction, reversals, tears, insatiabilities,
enslavements, digging imaginations, novels, what is
unexpected, what not to do, the chemical peculiarities of the
mysterious vulture that awaits the carrion of some dead illusion,
the precocious and aborted experiences, the
bug- shell obscurities , the terrible monomania of the pride, the inoculation of
deep stupors , funeral orations, envies, betrayals, tyrannies
, impieties, irritations, acrimonies, pranks
aggressive, dementia, spleen, reasoned fright,
strange worries, which the reader would prefer not to experience,
grimaces, neuroses, bloody channels, through which we make
logic pass at bay, exaggerations, absence of sincerity,
the saws, the platitudes, the gloomy, the gloomy, the childbirth worse
than the murders, the passions, the clan of the novelists of the courts of assizes,
the tragedies, the odes, the melodramas, the extremes presented in perpetuity.
death, reason whistled with impunity, the smells of sissy,
fading, frogs, octopuses, sharks, the simoun of the
deserts, which is somnambulist, fishy, ​​nocturnal, sleeping pill, night owl,
slimy, talking seal, equivocal, consumptive, spasmodic, aphrodisiac
, anemic, one-eyed, hermaphrodite, bastard, albino, pederast,
aquarium phenomenon and bearded woman, the drunken hours of
taciturn discouragement , the fantasies, the acridities, the monsters,
demoralizing syllogisms , garbage, what does not reflect like the child,
desolation, this intellectual mancenillier, the scent cankers, the
thighs of camellias, the guilt of a writer who rolls on the slope
of nothingness and is despises himself with joyful cries, remorse,
hypocrisies, the vague perspectives which crush you in their
imperceptible meshes , the serious spitting on sacred axioms, the
vermin and its insinuating tickles, the insane prefaces, like
those of Cromwell, Mlle de Maupin and Dumas fils, the caducities,
the impotences, the blasphemies, the asphyxiations, the suffocations, the
rages - in front of these filthy mass graves, which I blush to name, it is
time to finally react against what shocks us and bends us so
sovereignly.


Le Compte De Lauetremonot- Maldoror
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Re: Der Herbsttag by Johann Heinrich Voss

Postby Meno_ » Tue Dec 29, 2020 5:11 am

The Value of Sparrows


Meister Eckhart—Five Poems

When I Was The Forest
When I was the stream, when I was the
forest, when I was still the field
when I was every hoof, foot,
fin and wing, when I
was the sky itself,

no one ever asked me did I have a purpose, no one ever
wondered was there anything I might need,
for there was nothing
I could not love.

It was when I left all we once were that
the agony began, the fear and questions came,
and I wept, I wept. And tears
I had never known before.

So I returned to the river, I returned to
the mountains. I asked for their hand in marriage again,
I begged—I begged to wed every object and creature,

and when they accepted,
God was ever present in my arms.
And He did not say,
“Where have you
been?”

For then I knew my soul—every soul—
has always held
Him.

Why So Many Souls
When were you last really happy?
Let that experience ferment,
bring it to mind once
in a while.

Surely in the genesis of that past moment, when you danced,
you would not have wanted a constable
to have knocked
on your
door,

or have said, “You just entered
a restricted ground.”

Why are there so many stars and souls,
with no end in sight for
them?

Because nothing can interrupt God
when He is having
fun,

creating!

Jerusalem
A hand in my soul can reach out and touch Jerusalem
as my other hand tastes the beauty of the Rhine.

And my bare foot can stand upon the holy ashes of rain—each drop a
fallen Phoenix—that sang out from the fire of union
with clay.

The hills, the valleys, the beasts, the vineyards, the sacred meadows
on our earth and body—they shall pass and ascend as all form does,
tiring of the space within a cage;

for all crowds the soul but the infinite. Ascenders to God we are.

Look though how we enrich this planet with our melting organic
shadows, wondrous shadows are all but He.

What a womb God has—what wild love He must have made to
Himself for days and days without stopping

to have given birth to all you can imagine, and to all you cannot conceive.

Draw a circle around the frontiers of space, barely can God fit a
toe there.

All language has taken an oath to fail to describe Him;
any attempt to do so is the height of arrogance and will
always declare some kind of war:
the inner ones that undermine our strength, and the outer conflicts
that maim red.

I cried out one night in the madness of separation from love,
in the madness of doing, of trying to add to the Perfect;
for Perfect is All.

The awakened heart is like a luminous sphere—just giving without
thought to any who may come close or gaze at it.
The soul becomes blessedly lost to all
but its own holy
being.

When we cannot be who we are our divine senses become mute,
mute and sick from the insanity of judging
what He made Immaculate.

Who must God have made love to in order to have given birth to all this sound,
to this sacred spectrum of color, scents, and music from the
wind’s body and existence’s plea for mercy—that
plea for the real mercy, unbearable joy?

Once we had four legs and tails so useful to balance our raid into
heaven, and I found them again.

I am a swimming galaxy tonight. Angels prowl around me
hoping I will toss them a fresh piece of light—
here dears, here, my sack is full.

The universe rents space from me, and oceans are drawn
from my well. How can that be?

For I can touch Jerusalem while my other hand tastes
the beauty of the
Rhine.

Yes, I can kiss Jerusalem while my mouth
tastes the wonders of
the Rhine.

Always Kissing
They are always kissing, they can’t
control themselves.

It is not possible
that any creature can have greater instincts
and perceptions than the
mature human mind.

God
ripened me.
So I see it is true:
all objects in existence are
wildly in
love.

Intimate
Knowledge always deceives.

It always limits the Truth, every concept and image does.

From cage to cage the caravan moves,
but I give thanks,

for at each divine juncture
my wings expand
and I

touch Him more
intimately.

Meister Eckhart




>>>>>>>><<<<>>>>>>>>>>>><<>>>>>>>>>>>>>



Behind Me — dips Eternity –
Before Me — Immortality –
Myself — the Term between –
Death but the Drift of Eastern Gray,
Dissolving into Dawn away,
Before the West begin –

– Emily Dickinson (Behind Me – dips Eternity)
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Re: Der Herbsttag by Johann Heinrich Voss

Postby Meno_ » Sun Jan 03, 2021 9:36 pm

"Behind Me — dips Eternity –
Before Me — Immortality –
Myself — the Term between –
Death but the Drift of Eastern Gray,
Dissolving into Dawn away,
Before the West begin –"

– Emily Dickinson (Behind Me – dips Eternity)



Rattle Logo

Rattle: Poetry… WITHOUT PRETENSION SINCE 1995.

“Ask” by Thomas Mann


ASK

ask for forgiveness again the man with the dark skin
sat in the crevasse of the building and asked for spare
change and you lied again his dry face turned open like
a palm and smacked you with shame and you should feel
ashamed you saw on his face distorted features you still
recognized as human he was no animal other than the
animal each of us is despite the lie we tell that we are not
that lie is a cruelty which you hope dissolves with the wave
of a forgiving god a god who must face you as you faced
the man there but your god appearing within you will also turn
away and will leave you speechless won’t he just as this man
in his rags is speechless to you.


__________

Thomas Mann: “I am by training a theorist and social scientist. And however much this training claims to get to the quick of experience and relation, something inevitably remains untouched. Poetry, I find, attends most seriously to affective resonances that are so important to human life. Poetry, in other words, is that attempt to utter the impossible thing.”



Notice: © 2020 Rattle Foundation.
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Re: Der Herbsttag by Johann Heinrich Voss

Postby Meno_ » Mon Jan 04, 2021 1:54 am

Why does almost everything seem to me like its own parody? Why must I think that almost all, no, all the methods and conventions of art today are good for parody only?★★★★★This longing for the bliss of the commonplace.★★★★★Because it often happens that an old family, with traditions that are entirely practical, sober and bourgeois, undergoes in its declining days a kind of artistic transfiguration.★★That swamp of impropriety ... in ... which two civilized beings will behave like cannibals.★★★★★The writer's joy is the thought that can become emotion, the emotion that can wholly become a thought.


Thomas Mann
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Re: Der Herbsttag by Johann Heinrich Voss

Postby Meno_ » Thu Jan 07, 2021 6:06 pm

I know my lot. One day my name will be linked to the memory of something monstrous [etwas Ungeheueres]—to a crisis like none there has been on earth, to the most profound collision of conscience, to a verdict invoked against everything that until then had been believed, demanded, held sacred. I am no man, I am dynamite.




Nietzche , Ecce Homo
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Re: Der Herbsttag by Johann Heinrich Voss

Postby Meno_ » Thu Jan 14, 2021 5:46 pm

Kublai Khan



Samual Taylor Colridge
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Re: Der Herbsttag by Johann Heinrich Voss

Postby Meno_ » Thu Jan 14, 2021 6:47 pm

Kubla Khan



Or, a vision in a dream. A Fragment.

In Xanadu did Kubla Khan
A stately pleasure-dome decree:
Where Alph, the sacred river, ran
Through caverns measureless to man
Down to a sunless sea.
So twice five miles of fertile ground
With walls and towers were girdled round;
And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills,
Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree;
And here were forests ancient as the hills,
Enfolding sunny spots of greenery.

But oh! that deep romantic chasm which slanted
Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover!
A savage place! as holy and enchanted
As e’er beneath a waning moon was haunted
By woman wailing for her demon-lover!
And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething,
As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing,
A mighty fountain momently was forced:
Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst
Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail,
Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher’s flail:
And mid these dancing rocks at once and ever
It flung up momently the sacred river.
Five miles meandering with a mazy motion
Through wood and dale the sacred river ran,
Then reached the caverns measureless to man,
And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean;
And ’mid this tumult Kubla heard from far
Ancestral voices prophesying war!
The shadow of the dome of pleasure
Floated midway on the waves;
Where was heard the mingled measure
From the fountain and the caves.
It was a miracle of rare device,
A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice!

A damsel with a dulcimer
In a vision once I saw:
It was an Abyssinian maid
And on her dulcimer she played,
Singing of Mount Abora.
Could I revive within me
Her symphony and song,
To such a deep delight ’twould win me,
That with music loud and long,
I would build that dome in air,
That sunny dome! those caves of ice!
And all who heard should see them there,
And all should cry, Beware! Beware!
His flashing eyes, his floating hair!
Weave a circle round him thrice,
And close your eyes with holy dread
For he on honey-dew hath fed,
And drunk the milk of Paradise.

BY SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE
Constancy to an Ideal Object
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Re: Der Herbsttag by Johann Heinrich Voss

Postby Meno_ » Sat Feb 13, 2021 10:53 pm

Ways apt and new to sing of love I'd find,
Forcing from her hard heart full many a sigh,
And re-enkindle in her frozen mind
Desires a thousand, passionate and high;
O'er her fair face would see each swift change pass,
See her fond eyes at length where pity reigns,
As one who sorrows when too late, alas!
For his own error and another's pains;
See the fresh roses edging that fair snow
Move with her breath, that ivory descried,
Which turns to marble him who sees it near;
See all, for which in this brief life below
Myself I weary not but rather pride
That Heaven for later times has kept me here.



Petrarch
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Re: Der Herbsttag by Johann Heinrich Voss

Postby Meno_ » Wed Feb 17, 2021 5:33 am

We are the hollow men
    We are the stuffed men
    Leaning together
    Headpiece filled with straw. Alas!
    Our dried voices, when
    We whisper together
    Are quiet and meaningless
    As wind in dry grass
    Or rats' feet over broken glass
    In our dry cellar
   
    Shape without form, shade without colour,
    Paralysed force, gesture without motion;
   
    Those who have crossed
    With direct eyes, to death's other Kingdom
    Remember us-if at all-not as lost
    Violent souls, but only
    As the hollow men
    The stuffed men.

   
                              II

    Eyes I dare not meet in dreams
    In death's dream kingdom
    These do not appear:
    There, the eyes are
    Sunlight on a broken column
    There, is a tree swinging
    And voices are
    In the wind's singing
    More distant and more solemn
    Than a fading star.
   
    Let me be no nearer
    In death's dream kingdom
    Let me also wear
    Such deliberate disguises
    Rat's coat, crowskin, crossed staves
    In a field
    Behaving as the wind behaves
    No nearer-
   
    Not that final meeting
    In the twilight kingdom

   
                    III

    This is the dead land
    This is cactus land
    Here the stone images
    Are raised, here they receive
    The supplication of a dead man's hand
    Under the twinkle of a fading star.
   
    Is it like this
    In death's other kingdom
    Waking alone
    At the hour when we are
    Trembling with tenderness
    Lips that would kiss
    Form prayers to broken stone.

   
                      IV

    The eyes are not here
    There are no eyes here
    In this valley of dying stars
    In this hollow valley
    This broken jaw of our lost kingdoms
   
    In this last of meeting places
    We grope together
    And avoid speech
    Gathered on this beach of the tumid river
   
    Sightless, unless
    The eyes reappear
    As the perpetual star
    Multifoliate rose
    Of death's twilight kingdom
    The hope only
    Of empty men.

   
                            V

    Here we go round the prickly pear
    Prickly pear prickly pear
    Here we go round the prickly pear
    At five o'clock in the morning.
   
    Between the idea
    And the reality
    Between the motion
    And the act
    Falls the Shadow
                                    For Thine is the Kingdom
   
    Between the conception
    And the creation
    Between the emotion
    And the response
    Falls the Shadow
                                    Life is very long
   
    Between the desire
    And the spasm
    Between the potency
    And the existence
    Between the essence
    And the descent
    Falls the Shadow
                                    For Thine is the Kingdom
   
    For Thine is
    Life is
    For Thine is the
   
    This is the way the world ends
    This is the way the world ends
    This is the way the world ends
    Not with a bang but a whimper.




TS Elliot
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Re: Der Herbsttag by Johann Heinrich Voss

Postby Meno_ » Fri Feb 19, 2021 9:20 pm

How can we have survived so many generations,
with so much happening in so many directions,
with so much being hidden and so much unsaid,
with so much being forgotten and so much deliberately destroyed,
and yet still come back to the tinkle of a spoon in a china bowl?

Every moment a birth, a death, a failure, a success,
a murder, a creation, a theft, an offering,
an irreparable loss and an inestimable gain,
a banality and a masterpiece,
a revelation and a disappointment —
every moment absolutely complete and the definition of void.

Richard James
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Re: Der Herbsttag by Johann Heinrich Voss

Postby Meno_ » Sun Feb 21, 2021 8:35 pm

Stuck In The Middle With You ( You Being Me )….

Well, I don't know why I came here tonight

I got the feeling that something ain't right

I'm so scared in case I fall off my chair,

And I'm wondering how I'll get down those stairs

Clowns to the left of me, jokers to the right,

Here I am, stuck in the middle with you

Yes, I'm stuck in the middle with you,

And I'm wondering what it is I should do

It's so hard to keep this smile from my face,

Losing control, and I'm all over the place

Clowns to the left of me, jokers to the right,

Here I am, stuck in the middle with you

Well, you started off with nothing,

And you're proud that you're a self-made man

And your friends they all come crawling,

Slap you on the back and say,

Please, please

Trying to make some sense of it all,

But I can see it makes no sense at all



Gerry Rafferty - the Steelers
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Re: Der Herbsttag by Johann Heinrich Voss

Postby Meno_ » Thu Feb 25, 2021 5:30 pm

“Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird”

I
Among twenty snowy mountains,
The only moving thing
Was the eye of the blackbird.


II
I was of three minds,
Like a tree
In which there are three blackbirds.


III
The blackbird whirled in the autumn winds.
It was a small part of the pantomime.


IV
A man and a woman
Are one.
A man and a woman and a blackbird
Are one.


V
I do not know which to prefer,
The beauty of inflections
Or the beauty of innuendoes,
The blackbird whistling
Or just after.


VI
Icicles filled the long window
With barbaric glass.
The shadow of the blackbird
Crossed it, to and fro.
The mood
Traced in the shadow
An indecipherable cause.


VII
O thin men of Haddam,
Why do you imagine golden birds?
Do you not see how the blackbird
Walks around the feet
Of the women about you?


VIII
I know noble accents
And lucid, inescapable rhythms;
But I know, too,
That the blackbird is involved
In what I know.


IX
When the blackbird flew out of sight,
It marked the edge
Of one of many circles.


X
At the sight of blackbirds
Flying in a green light,
Even the bawds of euphony
Would cry out sharply.


XI
He rode over Connecticut
In a glass coach.
Once, a fear pierced him,
In that he mistook
The shadow of his equipage
For blackbirds.


XII
The river is moving.
The blackbird must be flying.


XIII
It was evening all afternoon.
It was snowing
And it was going to snow.
The blackbird sat
In the cedar-limbs.

Wallace Stevens,
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Re: Der Herbsttag by Johann Heinrich Voss

Postby Meno_ » Tue Mar 09, 2021 1:59 pm

The problem is all inside your head she said to me
The answer is easy if you take it logically
I'd like to help you in your struggle to be free
There must be fifty ways to leave your lover

She said it's really not my habit to intrude
Furthermore, I hope my meaning won't be lost or misconstrued
But I'll repeat myself at the risk of being crude
There must be fifty ways to leave your lover
Fifty ways to leave your lover

You just slip out the back, Jack
Make a new plan, Stan
You don't need to be coy, Roy
Just get yourself free
Hop on the bus, Gus
You don't need to discuss much
Just drop off the key, Lee
And get yourself free

She said it grieves me so to see you in such pain
I wish there was something I could do to make you smile again
I said I appreciate that and would you please explain
About the fifty ways

She said why don't we both just sleep on it tonight
And I believe in the morning you'll begin to see the light
And then she kissed me and I realized she probably was right
There must be fifty ways to leave your lover
Fifty ways to leave your lover

You just slip out the back, Jack
Make a new plan, Stan
You don't need to be coy, Roy
Just get yourself free
Hop on the bus, Gus
You don't need to discuss much
Just drop off the key, Lee
And get yourself free




Paul Simon
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Re: Der Herbsttag by Johann Heinrich Voss

Postby Meno_ » Fri Mar 12, 2021 2:33 am

1 “I am a camera with its shutter open, quite passive, recording, not thinking.”

2 “Fear, after all, is our real enemy. ...

3 If it's going to be a world with no time for sentiment, it's not a world that I want to live in.” ...
4 "The past is just something that's over.”


Christopher Isherwood
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Re: Der Herbsttag by Johann Heinrich Voss

Postby Meno_ » Tue Mar 16, 2021 12:52 am

"Nothing is more sad than the death of an illusion.
...
Courage is never to let your actions be influenced by your fears. ...

The principal mark of genius is not perfection but originality, the opening of new frontiers. ...

The more original a discovery, the more obvious it seems afterwards."

Arthur Koestler
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Re: Der Herbsttag by Johann Heinrich Voss

Postby Meno_ » Thu Mar 18, 2021 4:07 am

For last year's words belong to last year's language
And next year's words await another voice.

T.S. Eliot, Four Quartets

Tags: language, new-year, voice, words
We shall not cease from exploration
And the end of all our exploring
Will be to arrive where we started
And know the place for the first time.


Humankind cannot bear very much reality.



Footfalls echo in the memory, down the passage we did not take, towards the door we never opened, into the rose garden.



Tags: missed-chances

We shall not cease from exploration
And the end of all our exploring
Will be to arrive where we started
And know the place for the first time.
Through the unknown, remembered gate
When the last of earth left to discover
Is that which was the beginning;
At the source of the longest river
The voice of the hidden waterfall
And the children in the apple-tree
Not known, because not looked for
But heard, half-heard, in the stillness
Between two waves of the sea.


Love is most nearly itself
When here and now cease to matter.


Time present and time past
Are both perhaps present in time future
And time future contained in time past.



The dove descending breaks the air
With flame of incandescent terror
Of which the tongues declare
The one discharge from sin and error.
The only hope, or else despair
Lies in the choice of pyre or pyre-
To be redeemed from fire by fire.

Who then devised the torment? Love.
Love is the unfamiliar Name
Behind the hands that wove
The intolerable shirt of flame
Which human power cannot remove.
We only live, only suspire
Consumed by either fire or fire.




So here I am, in the middle way, having had twenty years-
Twenty years largely wasted, the years of l'entre deux guerres-
Trying to use words, and every attempt
Is a wholy new start, and a different kind of failure
Because one has only learnt to get the better of words
For the thing one no longer has to say, or the way in which
One is no longer disposed to say it. And so each venture
Is a new beginning, a raid on the inarticulate,
With shabby equipment always deteriorating
In the general mess of imprecision of feeling,
Undisciplined squads of emotion. And what there is to conquer
By strength and submission, has already been discovered
Once or twice, or several times, by men whom one cannot hope
To emulate - but there is no competition -
There is only the fight to recover what has been lost
And found and lost again and again: and now, under conditions
That seem unpropitious. But perhaps neither gain nor loss.
For us, there is only the trying. The rest is not our business.


In my end is my beginning.



Do not let me hear
Of the wisdom of old men, but rather of their folly,
Their fear of fear and frenzy, their fear of possession,

Of belonging to another, or to others, or to God.
The only wisdom we can hope to acquire
Is the wisdom of humility: humility is endless.



Footfalls echo in the memory
down the passage we did not take
towards the door we never opened
into the rose garden. My words echo
thus, in your mind



The only wisdom we can hope to acquire
Is the wisdom of humility: humility is endless.

The houses are all gone under the sea.

The dancers are all gone under the hill.





time past and time future
what might have been and what has been
point to one end, which is always present.

TS Elliot Four Quartets
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